The Past is a Present Thing
by persephonemoonbathesagain
Summary: It's 10 years post-war, and a slightly depressed Tonks is working far away from the war's immediate aftermath with orphaned werewolf children. She keeps the past and her inner demons at bay, until one day they show up on her doorstep, in the form of an old flame. Love, friendship, adventure, intrigue, politics, mystery, all in this saga. AU. you will not be disappointed. Review! 3
1. Prologue: Chapter 1

A loud buzzer sounded. And sounded. A cat pounced. And then another. A chorus of miaows added to the racket. It was 4:00 A.M. It was 4:00 A.M. already. 'Alright. Alright. I'm up,' muttered a disheveled woman, her lithe legs leaping her body to her feet before the sleep-addled mind attached had a chance to catch up. She slammed her fist on the alarm, running long fingers through currently short hair, bending backward her naked chest, without shame or awareness, into a long, crackling stretch.

The bare chested woman in question was a Metamorphmagus and at the moment her hair was shifting swiftly from color to color: tomato red, baby blue, zebra stripes, neon green, while her eyes were flickering wildly through each color of the rainbow. This happened often when she first got up. But for the last 10 years, since the war ended, these involuntary morning morphs were usually as far as she could go in terms of changing her appearance. In a few minutes, she knew, her hair and eyes would settle. Her hair would hang limp and mousy to her chin, her eyes would turn black so that iris was indistinguishable from pupil. It gave her a vacant look. She was used to startling people when they first made eye contact these days.

She was equally staid in her way of dressing. Just the same jeans, shirt, and sneakers combination day to day. Her wild and colorful dresses, her ripped tights, her floral crop tops, her Doc Martens, her Weird Sisters tee collection, in short her punked out uniforms she gleefully swore she'd wear into her 80s and beyond — all of it was collecting dust in the corner of her small but roomy New York City closet. So far away, so far away from…all that had been. From all that might have been. Well. At least she was home now. Home without a soul who knew what happened, what horrors were locked up in the past, in London, a decade earlier, with the Order, the war, with the man she almost placed her hopes in, almost her heart…Yeah. At least she was home. And anonymous. She appreciated the way she could be anonymous here like nowhere else.

Nymphadora Tonks was now in her mid-thirties, having shelved what she now saw as teenage delusions — delusions, she learned the hard way, that tend to last well into your twenties. Sometimes a bit beyond. Time had been cruel to her. She had lost so much. Her body was as charming if as clumsy as ever (a little less so), and yet…who cared? She shut her body and with it her desires down long ago. Her body was now nothing but an instrument to support her daily movements and travels. Men looked at her with lust, why, she couldn't understand, but for the most part she didn't notice them. She had stopped noticing them a long time ago. Their need was disgusting, and she was genuinely uninterested. No, repulsed. She was genuinely repulsed. Her still girlish appearance also repulsed her, since to her horror men tended to think she was a good 10 to even 15 years younger than she actually was. And this fact attracted the worst kinds of men, men who believed she was naive and eager to please just because of her alleged age, men who wouldn't just leave her the fuck alone, men who were out to deceive easily and believed they could, men who believed she was low hanging fruit, men who couldn't just leave her to her peace and solitude…men who, to her fury, couldn't see how aged and jaded she was through and through, not anything like a fresh young girl.

Older people, like her mother, reminded her that she was not only in fact still young, but that she looked far younger than her age. They said this was a silver lining for her. They said, after all she'd been through, she was lucky to not bear her scars outwardly, and suggested she count her appearance as a blessing. Others, after all, had not fared so nicely. To say the least.

But Tonks didn't see it that way. She hated when people said that. For it was as if she had been tossed back to an earlier time in life, a time which, in fact, had been cruelly wrenched from her, and yet there it was staring her in the mirror each morning, mocking her misery: the evidence and concealment of her trauma all in one glance. She hated the foolish wide-eyed girl staring back at her, but she could not get rid of her face. It was so much harder to move around in the mind she actually occupied, the old and weary mind, when her body was youthful and light, her face seemingly graced with cheeky innocence. She wanted people to look at her and immediately understand, see her marked as unavailable and damaged. If she could morph these days she probably would have chosen the warty face of a traditional Muggle witch…because she knew that then, and only then, but maybe not even then, yet still more so…men would leave her alone. At least most men would. And then she could have the world finally acknowledge that she was done with men and done with frivolity and done with anything but what the world still needed in terms of her work.

At the moment, Tonks was staring down the girl in the mirror again, shaking her head in disapproval (though her cat Cleo perched on her shoulder couldn't but coax a smile from her). Her appearance had settled for the rest of the day. At least it always settled in the same drab way. Had she gotten stuck with bubblegum hair the attention would reach an even more unbearable pitch. She splashed cold water on her face, standing as naked as she slept (it saved on laundry) in front of her closet. She selected some workout clothes, and popped in a DVD. That was one thing she also hated. The way her figure betrayed her. She saw men eye her every day, cat whistling, nodding in approval. Oh fuck them. She wasn't being coy or disingenuous as her mother accused. Her body simply wasn't for them. Her body wasn't for pleasure, wasn't for sex, wasn't for anyone but her. She needed to exercise, though, which kept her already Auror-ready physique in top shape, because exercise was and continued to be one of the main ways she would keep herself from going insane. However crazy she felt, she knew it'd all be hundreds of times worse if she were not exercising, something she'd done since she was a teenager on the Quiditch team with Auror aspirations. She put on her intensive barre DVD (hey, don't knock those ballerinas — they're strong as fuck, at least the non-anorexic ones), peeled a banana and turned on the radio to listen to the news as she worked out.

'…on this unseasonably warm day in Central Park. The time is 4:06.

Our main story today examines the unlikely but trenchant progress of the Orderers over the last 10 years. From a ragtag group of outcasts who heroically and against all odds stood up to the evil reign of He Who Must Not Be Named Even After Death and his followers, to the most popular political party to gain ascendancy over the Ministry of Magic, we sent our reporters out into the field to interview some of the Orderers' leaders, the ones who had been there from the very beginning. Here's what they had to say…'

Tonks halted mid-plie and approached the radio. She shut it off and continued her workout. But she stopped before completing her final set. She never did that. She saw things through to conclusion. Today, though, she couldn't. It was too hard. Too difficult. Too damn infuriating. Everything that had happened…Since the war, since…since her final innocence had been lost…

'The Orderers.' Huh. The success of the Order of the Phoenix at defeating Voldemort and the Death Eaters was the worst thing that had ever happened to it, Tonks thought ruefully. That seemed a traitorous thing to think, but it was true. 'Constant vigilance,' as Mad-Eye said. Well, when you emerge from a war victorious, you let the triumph go to your head. Genuine reasons to rejoice imperceptibly become excuses to stop thinking, to stop challenging, to stop…questioning, growing. People take advantage. The ones who want to seize power come out, confident that people are convinced the evil is gone…They come out when they are sure everyone's let their guard down. They're looking to stop fighting, to get back to everyday life, to indulge themselves, to forget the past. Tonks could hardly blame them. Still, she did.

The Order, as Tonks remembered it, that truly ragtag and mostly impoverished assortment of oddballs hellbent on fighting for a genuinely just and better tomorrow, was not the Order celebrated and popularized across the Wizarding World today. The Order everyone seemed to remember were the salivating politicians biding their time towards the end of the War, waiting to see how things would turn out, not the Order members Tonks knew and loved so tenderly at 12 Grimmauld Place. These politicians waited until they were sure things were settled, that Voldemort was truly defeated and the original Order of the Phoenix had won the day. Then they highjacked the name of the winning side, declared their victory, rewrote history in their favor at a time when people were desperate for comfort, solace, order, calm…They were old money, mostly purebloods who were too clever to cast their lot with either side during the war. Wizards like Adam Woods, the current Minister of Magic and, incredibly, in the pivotal weeks leading up to the last battle, Dolores Umbridge, now Headmistress of the New York City Wizarding Academy and the editor in chief of the Quibbler, which had, in the aftermath of the war, managed to regain mainstream respectability as it featured tear-jerking story after tear-jerking story praising the fallen and depicting the up close and personal struggles of war widows and orphaned children. Folks like Woods and Umbridge maintained a politically savvy neutrality at just the right moment and had the power and money to popularize their version of things. 'Weirdos like us don't become heroes…we just get forgotten and kicked to the curb,' Tonks muttered. Courted by Death Eaters, but without actually taking the bait, Woods and Umbridge held their influence in check until they could fully exercise it on a flailing, mourning population that just wanted to embrace unadulterated victory. The cost of 'victory' was high. 'Too high,' Tonks thought. And she wasn't so certain that the world was a better place, either.


	2. Prologue: Chapter 2

After the war, Tonks returned to her hometown, which was none other than New York City. She wasn't the only one to come to the States. Her beloved mentor and friend, Mad Eye Moody, had also crossed into Gotham. In the last decade, the Wizarding Community in New York saw an enormous influx of refugees, especially refugee children, many of them orphaned during the war, as countless parents sent their young family members overseas, by way of an elaborate and clandestine floo network. Tonks couldn't bear the somber atmosphere and the universal mourning of the old in England, and after the war she had an acute need to return home where, at least, she'd be far more anonymous on several counts than she ever was in England.

Also, she wanted to continue to be of use. Battle fatigue in London had overtaken everyone, it seemed, and the politics in that city was unbearably recalcitrant and increasingly reactionary. It's not that Tonks didn't care about the situation in London. She cared deeply. But she knew she could do more concrete good in Wizarding New York City, which, despite the suspicious presence of Umbridge, seemed to have maintained its progressive leanings, or at least its activism, post-war. Tonks especially cared about the children who had practically flooded the Wizarding community there, and, at her job at the Center for Magical Emigration's Children's Unit (CMECU), she was able to combine her Auror investigative skills with her fondness for young people, and her desire to mentor them. The work was fulfilling, though it took a toll on her emotionally. Still, she'd rather dedicate her emotional life to the sorrows of others than to face the wasteland that was her own inner desert of feeling.

With past (though, to Tonks at least, unspecified) ties to NYC and to its underground Auror units, Moody also headed to a home of sorts. Tonks further believed, though Moody would never admit it, that for Moody, Tonks was as good as a daughter and, at this point in his life, the closest thing to family he had. She was pretty sure that she herself was one of the reasons Moody chose to return to his NYC grounds, that and the fact, also something Moody would never admit, that the last war had taken a toll even on him. They had lost a lot of people, including a lot of children: Ron, Fred, Neville, Dobby; Hagrid, Sirius, Hestia, Minerva, of course Dumbledore…the list of the dead and gone filled pages and pages. A change of scene and a shift to a lower profile suited Moody just as much as Tonks, just fine.

Of course there had been another reason Tonks had left for home, but that particular reason was something she never dwelt on for very long, and it was something that she would never admit. It was a love pain. Or it was something very close to that. For she had very nearly fallen in love with one of her closest friends in the midst of a war. She never told him, though she suspected he knew and that he felt something similar for her. One of her great losses during the war, then, one she kept secret, was the death of hope for that love. She and Remus came out of the war different people, and Remus especially had simply slunk away, away from the spotlight, but also away from her and their friends, as soon as things were finished. She had been raped, abused, and beaten, and then she was forced to endure it all over again. He had been tortured within an inch of his life, by the man who had, from the beginning of that life, threatened to upend it; had still more people, as well as his dignity as a human being, stripped away from him. And they were both unable to prevent the harm done. Neither could bear to look the other in the eye. It was all too painful. Between them there was never even a formal parting, and neither party kept in touch. Whatever love might have been budding between them, they both had tacitly agreed to let it die. Remus had long understood, and the once effervescent Tonks came to understand, that trauma changes people, alters the way they can be in the world, and it very often incapacitates them. Perhaps forever. She had become, in small measure at least, a little more like Remus, and Remus had become more like his shadow, sadder self, than ever before. Tonks couldn't even remember the last time they met. She didn't want to remember. There were no goodbyes. She never even told him her relocation plans…

'Stop it, Tonks,' Tonks chided herself, as she peeled off her clothes and stepped into a hot shower, one of her only sensual pleasures these days. 'Stop dwelling in the past. It does no good. It does no good.'

In another hour, Tonks was dressed, and out the door, having also done the eating and cleaning rounds with her beloved cats, of whom she had 5. Her shift began early, at 7:30, and before that she was to meet Moody at the local diner, a hole in the wall run by a Chinese family, the Lees, that served apple pie and greasy American fare alongside the best dim sum (off menu) in the borough (Queens) if not in all of NYC.

'Hi Mr. Lee!' Tonks waved as she entered her favorite haunt, taking her usual seat at the bar. 'Ah! Hi Miss Tonks. You are early today. What can I get for you?' 'Oh, well, hmmm…' she looked at the menu. 'Hey, Mr. Lee, do you have Mrs. Lee's homemade soup from last time?' She looked at him in a silly gesture of pretty please pleading. 'In fact, we do, we kept it in the back special for you. No need to butter-me-up-your-way into it' Tonks chuckled. Her banter with the Lees was the result of a long acquaintance, now a true friendship. Tonks had, after all, stood extra special guard with their small daughter at the CMECU each day. 'Yay! If it's not too much trouble, seriously.' 'It is my pleasure for our best customer. And friend.' 'Aw, thanks Mr. Lee, I —' all of a sudden there was a screech of pleasure and Tonks legs were bound into a tight embrace by a beautiful little girl, full of life, with her sleek hair tied up in a glorious green ribbon. 'TONKS!' 'Hey there little trooper! How are ya today, Angela?' 'I'm going to school again today and I made THIS in school, hold on!' Angela rushed into the back of the diner, as a waiter came out holding several dishes, looking half amused and mildly annoyed as he nearly lost his balance while Angela darted past. This was Angela's first semester at school, and she and her parents were proud of that. Angela had worked with Tonks and the other children regarded either as 'filthy,' 'eliminable' and 'unsalvagable vermin,' or else as literal slaves to be recruited for the pureblood cause during and even, secretly, after the war, something that, in recent years, no one in London wanted to believe or pay attention to, but something that Tonks was dedicated to combating in less war scarred and more cynical New York City. The fact that Angela was not only leading a normal life but flourishing filled her parents with pride and Tonks with a deep sense of meaning in what for her was, privately, all too often a seemingly meaningless life.

Mr. Lee smiled. 'Let me go to get you that soup, Tonks.' 'Thanks so much again. And maybe a cup of coffee, pleeeeaaaaseee?' she called after him as he went through the double doors, raising his hand in acknowledgment. Meanwhile, a gust of cold wind swept through the small establishment, and Tonks heard the clankety clank clankety clank of a wooden leg walking in time with a metal-plated cane. To her, now and always, that was one of the world's most comforting sounds. Without turning around, she intoned: 'Mad Eye.' A simple declaration that belied her deep love and affection for her decades-long mentor, and now friend.

Moody sat down gruffly, huffing pointedly as he took his seat next to Tonks without quite looking at her. Mr. Lee was just coming out with Tonks's soup and coffee. Somehow he had also anticipated Moody's arrival (though, it is true, they usually came to the diner as a pair), and so had brought extra coffee and an enormous stack of pancakes. 'Lee,' Moody growled, not unfriendly, but Angela was already in the middle of everything, her arms now wrapped tightly around Moody's legs — both wooden and flesh. 'MISTER MOODY!' Something in Mad Eye's expression softened, though Tonks fancied only she could tell. 'What is it, then, little lassie?' 'I WAS JUST SHOWING TONKS! LOOK! LOOK! LOOK WHAT I MADE IN SCHOOL!' She brought out her proudest creation with a flourish, as Tonks, Mr. Lee, and Moody looked on. The three adults inhaled, sharply, as one.

It was a drawing. Not an unusual thing for a child Angela's age to bring home from school. But the subject matter was quite…concerning. 'What…well…such beautiful colors, Angela…' Mr. Lee began, as the child's face fell. 'Don't you like it, isn't it good, the teacher gave it 100, you know…' 'Oh, Angela.' Tonks hugged her and kissed the top of her head. 'You know we love everything you make, and we want you to keep making more, but…' She looked up at Mr. Lee and Moody. Moody looked back and then turned to Angela's father, expectantly. He cleared his throat. 'Mark. Go on…' he hoarsely whispered. 'Angela. Where…who…who taught you to draw this?' The 'this' Mark Lee was referring to was a rough but unmistakable color sketch of a blood stained battlefield in which giants, werewolves, veela, merfolk, and various witches and wizards (labeled 'M.B.' for Mudblood) were laying all akimbo and, apparently, unconscious or dead, with a 5 year old's approximation of the Dark Mark over them. It was not only a terrible, terrible image. It was all the more terrible, thinking that the joyful and compassionate 5 year old they knew and loved was its creator.

Angela started to cry. Mr. Lee and Tonks immediately began to comfort her in turn, as Moody gave the drawing a closer inspection, his magical eye whirling, with emotion or with rapid thinking, Tonks could never quite tell… 'Angela, we are not upset with you, and your art skills are…as usual…they are quite impressive! Very good!' Mr. Lee faltered. Angela truly was a precocious talent, and the Lees, Moody, and Tonks saw in her preternatural enthusiasm for drawing the hints of a great artistic future. A wonderful prospect for anyone, let alone a child labeled 'vermin' in recent years by those who wanted to purge the future from the hopes and dreams of the likes of Angela…

'But…but…' 'Angela, sweetie,' Tonks picked up, 'we are just a little worried. People are hurt in your drawing. It's such a sad and angry picture. What made you think of this?' 'I didn't…it was…it was…it was based on a story we heard…' 'A story?' Tonks prompted. 'I don't want to talk about it!' 'Sweetie, that is totally fine. Here.' She lifted the child up so that she was sitting on Moody's lap. She smiled big and wide up at him. Moody grunted, but couldn't help a small smile in return. He whispered at Tonks, though, loud and harsh, more to save face than anything: 'You better watch yourself, young girl. I'm too old to play the buffoon.' 'Naw, I think you're just about the right age,' Tonks winked. 'Angela, why don't we ask your daddy really really nice whether we could share some warm apple pie for breakfast since it's such a special day today, hm?' 'YEAH!' 'Yeah, Dad, could you get us some warm apple pie?' Mr. Lee wagged his finger, but looked relieved, at least for the moment. 'Ok, ok, just this once!' Angela started shouting at him in gleeful Mandarin as he removed the pie from the case. 'She wants extra whipped cream, Tonks.' 'You're welcome, Mark.' He and Tonks exchanged a brief smile.

Moody glanced at the little girl devouring her pastry. 'I really am not a grandfather, ok?' he shot at Tonks. 'You are a little bit.' 'Look. You're the one who takes care of all these kids. And they're not even yours. I don't take care of them. You do.' 'You know you love them, though.' Moody snorted. 'I do not. I hate kids. They disrupt the practice of constant vigilance.' 'Sure they do.' These were always the best parts of Tonks's days, when she could forget the fact that she was damaged, depressed and lonely, in the company of good people, like the Lees, like Mad Eye. She felt more at home than ever then. 'Just eat your pancakes, Mad Eye.'

'Seriously, lass. We need to debrief later. I'm already needing to get a move on this morning.' He started attacking his pancakes. 'But! Both of us need to figure out what is going on in That School.'

'That School' was attached, physically and administratively, to the New York City Wizarding Academy, run by Dolores Umbridge; That School was the New York City Wizarding Preparatory Academy, or simply 'Wizarding Prep,' for short. It accepted children aged 5-10, and it had long been an excellent way to get into the very competitive (though public and supposedly open to all) Wizarding Academy.

Mr. Lee approached Moody and Tonks, looking worn and far older than his 42 years. 'Regroup later? I am worried.' 'Of course. In the meantime, I'll see Angela at the Center after school. I might get a sense before then of the wider context for this…yeah. Moody and I have our eyes open. In his case, so to speak. You know we are Aurors first and foremost.' 'I know.' Mr. Lee nodded grimly. 'See you later, Tonks. Angela! Let Mr. Moody finish his pancakes. It's time for school. Say bye bye.' 'Bye Tonks! By Mr. Mad Eye!' Angela giggled, hugged the two 'first and foremost' Aurors, and followed her father to the backroom to get her school supplies. 'Breakfast is on the house, you two.' 'No way, Mr. Lee!' 'Oh yes. Yes, it is.' Tonks glanced at Moody once Mr. Lee was out of sight with Angela. 'Let's double his tip.' 'Allow me, lassie.' 'Aw, Moody, you're so chivalrous. I owe you a…whatever it is you drink out of that flask.' 'No you don't. Let's just get a move on and touch base later. At least by Floo.' 'Sure thing, Mad Eye.'

They stepped out into the chilly December air, and Tonks pulled her coat tighter to her neck and added, 'it's not like I have anything else to do but Floo you about Umbridge et al each night.' Moody just stared. 'And that's another thing. Now it is absolutely none of my business, nor do I care what you do or don't do with anybody or anything. But as my trainee I expect, I expect…' Moody, uncharacteristically, trailed off. 'I cannot believe it,' Tonks stated, genuinely shocked. 'You are actually taking an interest in my social life?!' 'Or lack thereof.' 'Merlin, Moody, why?!' 'I honestly have no idea. I suppose…' 'Yes?' 'I suppose. I suppose I care about you. Of course I do! No need to draw that out or dwell. I know you're depressed, Tonks, and you have been for a long time. You really should — and this does have to do with you helping me with the Aurors Underground — you really should…be able to morph. And…and…' 'Yes? Seriously Mad Eye you're acting mighty strange. Awkwardness does not suit you at all.' 'That mousy hair and half-arsed professional garb does you no favors either.' 'Huh. Touche. But what is it you're trying to spit out?' 'Can't now. Floo later. 8 PM?' 'Naw. I get up at 4. You know that. I need to be wound down by then.' 'Ok. Diner tomorrow morning. Make it at 7.' 'Deal.'


	3. Prologue: Chapter 3

The rest of the day passed by quickly for Tonks, and without incident. It was, however, approaching the full moon, so she had her hands full with the children from the Center. As she passed through the Children's Unit on her way to the Werewolf subdivision that morning, she sensed the mounting anxiety in the air before she entered the room. These children were very small when they were bitten, many only infants. Others, like Angela, had their condition passed to them through their parents. All in question were bitten or infected through a deliberate Greyback-ordered bite, during the war.

Right before the moon, the werewolf children — for those were the children whose care she specialized in, for reasons clear to her and clearly stated on her CV, and also for reasons she kept more hidden, both from herself while on her CV unstated — the werewolf children right before the full moon were in heightened emotional, hormonal, and appetitive states. It all manifested itself differently from child to child, of course. Two nights before the full moon (and there were now two such nights more to go) Angela became withdrawn, but intensely creative, drawing her most prescient and poignant work just then. Other children like Samir became sullen and depressed, unable to think or to play or to concentrate, though they didn't quite understand why, or at least they weren't reconciled to the monthly changes in their bodies. Some of the older children like Tammy became amorous and affectionate, cuddling with other children, sometimes experimenting with kissing. Almost all of the children, except Nadine, who was showing early signs of an eating disorder — common amongst female werewolves, for several reasons that Tonks was researching — exhibited monstrous appetites right before the full moon, even in the week leading up to it. The children were voracious, and today Tonks had rallied them all (besides Nadine, with whom she spent some special time talking) with some Chinese takeout (Mr. Lee would scoff at this 'American bad habit' as he called it — he didn't want Angela to get the wrong impression about her native cuisine, but she was already sold on the greasy American version as well as her parents' preferred palate; she was not a picky eater) and some classic NYC pizza with everything on it. It was so tempting even Nadine was persuaded to have a slice and some lo mein, and the other children encouraged her. That was one of the shining moments of Tonks's entire week, when Nadine, laughing, took a huge bite of the pizza as the other children cheered. Nadine had smiled, sheepish, but clearly pleased with herself.

As Tonks trudged home through the biting December air, she felt a lightness in her heart, inexplicably. Certainly there were problems. She had not been able to find anything else out about the story behind Angela's drawing, and she was concerned, though also eager, to hear what Moody might have been able to gather. Moreover, she was as un-morphing and depressed (at least privately) as she had ever been in the last 10 years, and she had all but given up on anything of a personal nature brightening her life.

And yet there was brightness. She had a good friend in Mad Eye. He was not exactly someone you shared giggly secrets with, or had sob fests with, but she really had no giggly secrets anymore and also no sobs left in her, so that part was quite alright. Other than that he was kind to her in his own way, and always unfailingly loyal, honest, and fiercely supportive. The Lees were also a bright spot. They let Tonks into their lives, and trusted her to care for their daughter in ways they were always willing to learn, but couldn't fully provide for themselves — caring for a werewolf child was an education in itself, as Tonks knew now from experience. She found immense satisfaction and, indeed, love in her relationship with the Lees, and, really, with all of the children, many of whom were orphans. She might remain without friends her own age. She might not have had a lover since…for crying out loud, minus a few ill-chosen one night stands, she felt like she might as well be a virgin again, that's how distant she felt from sex…She might still be injured, gravely, in her body and mind from the wartime trauma, but…she had built a life for herself. A meaningful one. It wasn't the most satisfying in terms of her intimate emotional and physical needs. But it was busy and fulfilling and she truly loved helping children. Maybe she wasn't doing too badly. As she opened the door to her apartment, as her beautiful balls of feline fur mewed for their supper, as she generously filled their respective bowls and watched them munch away, she felt…almost alright with the world.

An hour later Tonks was settling down for bed. She lay her futon on the floor and picked up the comic book she read periodically to take her mind off things. She was just dosing off when there was a sudden knock — more like a thud — at her front door. Tonks froze. No one, not even Moody, came to her door, let alone at this time of night. She threw on the old dress she had flung off just moments before and grabbed her wand. The thud sounded again, and for some reason her heart started to pound. She advanced towards the door. 'Who is it?' she said in her best, though rather unpracticed, professional Auror voice. 'Nymphadora. I am so sorry to disturb you like this…' she heard the voice, hoarse and low, followed by a loud chest cough, all of it as incredible as it was unmistakable. Simply, with the honest expression of a child frightened yet ready to receive whatever it was the world was going to give, for good or for ill, to accept it wholeheartedly in whatever ungodly form it might assume, Nymphadora Tonks opened her door and found the man with whom she her heart had been buried.


	4. Prologue: Chapter 4

'Remus.' Tonks stared and stared. She felt calm and accepting, as if it was the most expected thing in the world to have Remus Lupin appear on her doorstep that night, and yet another part of her knew she was so placid precisely because she didn't believe this was real. She was convinced that she was dreaming, and she hardly felt like this apparition deserved an actual response. In fact, she started, not angrily, just absent-mindedly, to close the door in his face, when he smiled sadly and repeated 'Nymphadora. I truly am sorry…' That's when her heart stopped. Something in his smile told her she was not dreaming. 'Remus…' she whispered, and though her expression did not change, and though she uttered no sound, silent tears began pouring down her face in fierce, salty torrents. 'Oh. Remus,' she sighed, as if to herself, quieter still. 'I know. Dora. I will explain everything. May I come in?' Tonks stepped aside, and let him pass. He stepped in, shyly, apologetically.

Tonks continued to cry silently and without expression on her face. She kept staring. Remus began to look around awkwardly. 'Nymphadora.' He took a tentative step closer, searching her face. 'Didn't…didn't Alastor tell you?' 'No. No, he didn't. Tell me what?' 'That I was…here.' 'No. He didn't.' 'Oh. I'm so sorry. He told me he would tell you today.' 'He didn't.' 'I'm sorry.' They stared at each other.

Suddenly, Tonks whirled around so that her back was to him. She whipped around to face him just as suddenly. 'REMUS LUPIN!' He straightened up, wincing slightly, but wearing his usual mask of receptive calm. 'It's been so long, Lupin! And you just disappear! And you just just just…you just show up! At my door! As if nothing has happened — what ARE you doing here, no, why are, no, I, oh, I…OH!' 'Nymphadora, I truly did believe Moody had already told you of my arrival. I believed you had been expecting me. This is a misunderstanding. The last thing I want to do is to upset you, and I could —' But Tonks had thrown herself into his arms, almost knocking him over, giving herself over to a release she hadn't felt…since before the war…when her need for release had never been as great as it was just then. 'Oh, Remus,' she whispered, 'you were my best friend…my best friend…' 'I know, Dora. I…I'm sorry.' 'I'm sorry too. I never even —' Tonks halted, for she felt something warm in between them. Warm, sticky, red. Blood.

'Merlin's beard, Remus, you are bleeding!' She looked up at him in alarm, and saw too that he was blanching. 'I know…I'm sorry…I headed here earlier than I would've' — Tonks was moving him carefully to her couch, conjuring her Healer's kit — 'I was going to check with Moody, I would've, to make sure you heard, but…I got into a mess…' 'Shhh…lie down.'

Her face deliberately glazed over with professional intent, she quietly and swiftly undid his button-down shirt to find the source of his wound. There were three terrible gashes running from his left abdomen to his rib cage, several shards of glass sticking out, and a few less serious scratches on his right side. 'Holy shit, Remus, this should have been the first thing you showed me. Typical.' She snorted sarcastically, in feigned indignation. She was dead scared, but didn't want him to see. It had been a long time since she had tended to wounds this bad, but she was trained very well, and had kept up with her Healing practices, developing them even further past her Auror requirements because she worked with werewolf children, who were extremely prone to violently wrought, sometimes self-inflicted, wounds.

Remus was fading into unconsciousness, but struggling against it, searching her face for…something. Working her wand over his wounds, she first withdraw all the glass shards, extra gently (he barely acknowledged the pain, just kept studying her face, as his own eyes drifted in and out of focus). She then proceeded to rub disinfectant salve in his wounds, soaking them as she simultaneously prepared a healing, wound-shrinkage ointment, and her specialty, a high calorie, high in sugar chocolate malt shake, to combat the weakness from loss of blood. His injuries were very serious from the standpoint of Muggle medicine; but now that he was in the hands of an experienced Auror with extensive Healer experience, he would be as good as new come morning, Tonks thought, as she relaxed. She truly hated the sight of blood, especially on someone as dear to her as Remus, though she successfully suppressed that reaction.

After administering the ointment, she helped Remus sit up to sip the shake. 'You'll like it. It's chocolate.' He managed a weak grin. 'I can hardly sip, let alone…' 'Too bad. Drink.' He obeyed, and instantly his complexion turned a couple shades away from bloodless. 'Good boy.' Good boy? Apparently, Tonks was feeling something she hadn't felt in a very long time. Cheeky. Silly. Even flirtatious. 'Watch yourself, woman,' Tonks warned herself, 'you barely have a grip on the reality of this situation. You very well might still wake up from—'

'It's really…good to see you, Nymphadora.' 'Remus…It's Tonks.' 'I never called you Tonks. Except, I suppose, when I was annoyed with you.' 'But you were NEVER annoyed with me.' 'No. Not in any deep way. Well. Sometimes I was.' 'DRINK, Remus.' Remus took another somewhat less belabored sip.

'Thank you. I don't deserve this. I am very fortunate.' 'That's bullshit, Remus. Cut it. You know my door has always been open to you. You've just never stepped through it before.' She looked at him curiously. 'Well…we have a lot to catch up on. If that's conducive to your plans…' he trailed off. 'Yes. I'd like that. But for now, let's see how you're doing.' She rolled her eyes. In the past it was cute to her, how Remus self-abnegated to the point of his own annihilation almost; he'd put courtesy to her above his bleeding wounds; it was absurd and, years and years ago she had thought, downright charming. By the end of the war, however, she came to understand that these were not just some adorable character traits there for her amusement. Remus was not a cartoon character, the stuff of fantasy and teenaged crushes; he was a real person and the reasons why he put himself last, his very survival sometimes taking the backseat to someone else's mere momentary comfort, were because he was deeply damaged for reasons specific to his complex, pained biography. She was no longer charmed by his deflection of help; she took it in stride. And it concerned her, at least insofar as she was for now his Healer…and, maybe…soon…It didn't matter. Focus. Tonks re-focused her attention on what there was at present. Nothing more than this.

She ran cool but soft hands over his exposed flesh. She felt something tingle inside of her, and chided herself once more, noticing but choosing to do nothing about her response to the contact. Remus's wounds had stopped bleeding, but it would take a day or so of solid rest to have his skin return to normal, she noted, clinically.

'You're not looking bad. Not bad at all. You got here just in time, and of course you got yourself to the very best 'here'. I've been doing a lot of healing lately, you know…' Now it was Tonks who trailed off. She looked down into his eyes, as he struggled to prop himself up against the back end of the couch. That was a mistake. Her attention to reality seemed to shift again. 'No, Remus, don't move. Down boy.' It was that damned flirtatiousness again. How strange. Remus was squarely from her past, from the worst of it, yet he made her feel already so…normal. As if the worst hadn't happen. As if anything could still be possible. As if she really were still that fresh young girl stomping around carefree in her bright pink combat boots.

Remus was watching her with something that seemed a mixture of admiration and wonder. A chill traveled down Tonks's spine, and she looked away, resolute to keep her wits about her until she could process this all alone. After she slapped Mad Eye silly.  
'What have you been doing, Nymphadora?' His voice was hoarse but also, unusually for him, there was a trace of longing in it. Probably from the loss of blood. 'Drink, Lupin. Drink. Keep drinking.' He took a deep sip of the shake and coughed. 'It's quite good for something that's supposed to bring you back from the brink of death, or worse.' 'I put in a special ingredient just for you.' 'You did?' 'No! How would I have? You just show up here. I don't have anything lying around for you…like I used to…' She meant it in a lighthearted way, but it came out a little colder than she expected it to. 'Yes, well…really, Dora. What have you been doing? I want to know.' 'No, Remus, not now. First, get some rest. In the morning, I'll force all necessary information from you.'


	5. Prologue: Chapter 5

'Well…I am feeling quite well now. I feel so rude, just barging in, after…after…after so long, after everything…and immediately —' 'Seriously, Remus, shut it. You know what I said and you know it's true: my door has always been and remains open to you. You just never…came through before,' she ended quietly, to her shock, close to sobs again. Seeing the almost bereft look in his own eyes, something she almost never saw in the outwardly serene werewolf, encouraged her to continue, despite herself. 'And besides, I understand. I think we both do. The war was…it was dreadful. I imagine, if it was anything for you as it was for me…it was almost as if…I wanted to protect you, Remus. Merlin knows what from. But I wanted to protect you from my pain. I couldn't bear to bear your burden of carrying my burden…I just…I…we both…faded away from each other…but…for me…never for lack of…never for lack of…of caring…'

She had never seen Remus cry, not even after Sirius's death, but just then his eyes were shining with tears. 'I know, Dora. I know. Yes. It was the same for me.' 'Will we talk later, then?' She whispered, her voice rent with pain she unsuccessfully tried to cover over. 'I promise we will. I don't want to go another day without that.' 'Ok.' And then she added 'Me neither.'

'But, Dora…let's just acknowledge. We need to rebuild trust if we want to…keep talking.' 'I know. I know.' 'You don't quite know, Nymphadora, because you let me in here without a security question. So not only do you implicitly trust this Remus Lupin you think is before you, you also trust the world enough to accept that, after 10 years, he is indeed truly at your doorstep.' 'That's just cruel, Lupin. I know it's you. I didn't have to ask.' 'Oh, indeed? How?' 'I have installed a very sophisticated identification charm that they only teach us Aurors and not Remus Lupin, and it would've given a false contender away even before reaching my doorstep.' She stuck out her tongue at him, again forgetting that she wasn't 24 any longer. Or 15 for that matter. 'I see.'

'Also, I could just tell.' 'You can't just tell. There is no 'just telling.'' 'Did you come back from the underworld, or wherever you've been, just to scold me for not keeping Constant Vigilance?' 'I am sure you have Moody for that. No. I came back from the underworld, in fact, well…I will tell you tomorrow…' 'Alright, agreed. Good night.' She started walking to the other side of the apartment, pulling out her own futon, settling in, feeling rather awkward. She paused.

'Also, your tattoo.' 'Pardon?' 'Your tattoo.' She approached the couch, and sat down next to him. Trembling slightly, she tenderly unbuttoned the bottom part of his shirt again, and pointed with an exaggeratedly professional air, and raised eyebrows, to a dark inscription in his skin, right above his pelvic bone. It was a small black and red mark, two triangles for ears, and an angry red dot for a mouth. Right below, an identification code: 3958C. They looked at one another, both remembering the first time Tonks had seen the ugly mark, and the conversation that had ensued. Remus said softly, 'It could be polyjuiced.' 'No. Polyjuice cannot replicate werewolf brandings. No magic can. It's indelible and exclusive to the individual.' 'You know your stuff, Auror Tonks.' 'I try. Now get some sleep. And right. Let me get you some bedding…of course you didn't ask' she muttered under her breath, as she walked away. There was part of Tonks that craved his company elsewhere that night, but she knew that not only would that be for all intents and purposes, for now, impossible; it would furthermore be, even if possible, most unwise.

Tonks re-emerged from her bedroom with a cheery variety of sheets, pillows and covers, children's things she had charmed to adult size: Strawberry Shortcake pillows, dinosaur sheets, Care Bear comforters, everything in pastel rainbow and forest green. Remus chuckled. 'Oh, I missed this.' Again, they looked at each other, and this time the look they exchanged was shy. 'I meant…I meant…your most unusual accessories.' 'I know. Well. I'm glad you're here because to be honest I don't use my merry accessories much anymore.' 'Ah.' 'Now let's get you settled…' 'I'll do that, Nymphadora, please…' But Tonks had already conjured up a beautiful bed, already made, for Remus, folding out from the couch. 'In the meantime, you really should ask that security question.' 'I should?' 'Yes, Dora. To set me at ease.' He had been similarly protective of her during the war, never allowing her to let him in until she verified his identity. Tonks thought it absurd and somewhat offensive that he should think, after all that had happened to her, there was even a point in trying to protect herself. To protect whatever remained of herself, more accurately.

Suddenly, Tonks began to feel depressed and angry all over again. When her demons overcame her like that, what she usually did was binge watch some show or other or numb herself with similarly brainless activity, until she was up so late, so tired, she could no longer feel, with nothing left to do but sleep and then sleep most of the next day away. Except this time she was around someone else as the darkness started to descend, and her usual ways of 'coping' weren't going to cut it. Unless she wanted Remus to observe her strange behavior. Which she didn't.

'Nymphadora?' Remus's voice roused her from her inward turn. She thought she heard a vague note of concern in his query. It didn't matter, though. She was not sure why, or how, but Remus Lupin had succeeded in greatly, greatly upsetting her. He had crossed some invisible line in the last 2 minutes. Exactly when, she wasn't sure.

'A security question' she stated. Remus didn't respond. 'A security question. Hm. Ok. Ok, Remus. Where were we when we said goodbye to one another after the war?' 'Dora…' Remus winced. He was, again most uncharacteristically, almost whimpering. 'Well, what's the answer?' 'We didn't say goodbye after the war,' he said quietly, simply. 'So there really is no answer.' The former friends regarded each other with caution and a new perception of distance. Estrangement. 'Congratulations. You pass muster. Good night, Remus.' Remus sighed. 'Good night, Dora.' She took her own bedding to the other side of the studio apartment (her cats were in the corridor, sleeping, in between the one room and the bathroom) and she lay down, turning her back — and her mind and heart — from the opposite side of the room. Neither she nor Remus got much sleep that night.

Author's note: So ends the prologue, dear readers. This fic is going to be pretty epic, meaning it is going to contain all manner of things: drama, action, adventure, politics, friendship, and of course romance for all us saps. I have a good outline of where I am going, but I am writing for you! So do give me special requests and I will mull them over with glee. ;-) Also, I am a new writer, so if you can share my work and help get word out or have any suggestions for that, let me know. In all cases, read and review. *hearts*


	6. Part I: Labyrinths: Chapter 1

Author's note: I plan to update this story every week or so, one to even two chapters a week (I write a lot and fast, though I am sure there will be weeks when I cannot update as quickly). I update quicker or more regularly when you write reviews though! *shameless grin* Please also check out my other fics. They are almost completed, but…leave reviews! And, as always, requests are welcome. I will try to incorporate ideas. *hearts and smiles*

Oh! And also. Many other side notes I could share if people are interested, but for now, I'll mention why I have this set in NYC. It's simple. I'm from NYC, and since this is going to be a multi-part fic with slow build romance and plot, etc., I think environment and context are very important to the story. I have no concrete knowledge of Britain and even though we all love those Britishisms that make HP world so charming to all of us Americans, I felt to make things as authentic as possible for me as a writer, I needed to have the main character, Tonks, be from NYC and for most of the action to take place there. Plus I wanted to have some of this have a film-noir or crime novel kind of feel (without being gratuitously about 'crime,' more of a political takedown story)…or even a downtrodden superhero feel (think Jessica Jones, whom I love)…and NYC is a traditional setting for that. Finally, HP isn't the most diverse world, and I really wanted to put that world a little more in a real-world context in that way.

FAKE LATIN WARNING FOR THIS STORY, haha. You'll see. It would be such a useful spell, though.

Back to the story! *hugs*

Early the next morning, Tonks was in a terrible mood. She couldn't quite understand why. She didn't want to understand. She knew, vaguely, as sleep was still fogging her mind, that it had something to do with…with…

With the past sleeping on her couch.

No. This was not ok.

Tonks had lived alone for a long time and, besides her friends like the Lees, connected to her job; besides the children whom she loved but were not, well, were not her peers; besides Moody who was never going to overly involve himself in her emotional life (something she appreciated about him, his respect for her privacy and independence); Tonks had no acquaintances, friendly or intimate. She didn't even know how to move around space in the most basic of ways with another human being in the vicinity of her private quarters. She just couldn't. But she was going to have to now.

Her skin began to itch. Sweat started to pool at her neck, under her arms and, for Merlin's sake, behind her knees. She was angry. Furious in fact.

There was no logic to it, or rationale, at least not one that she was in a position to fathom at the moment. All she knew was that this person on the couch was agitating parts of her she didn't think existed anymore. Tonks was in no mind to sort it out, logically, emotionally. She just had to — holy shit, it was already 6 A.M.! Remus had somehow made her (how, exactly, she couldn't say) sleep in 2 hours. No time to exercise, damn it, barely time to feed her cats and get to the diner on time to meet Moody. Well. She'd just have to expedite her morning routine. Before that, though, Tonks made sure to jot a mental note to herself: eliminate all distractions from your minimally established contentment; especially distractions in the form of werewolf men; especially werewolf men who assume the guise of old flames, and who are in turn sleeping on your couch; and definitely rid yourself of the ones satisfying the aforementioned conditions who, in addition, not only are named after but are also, in fact and in Auror-vetted honest to goodness reality, one, Remus Lupin.

But for now. Tonks flicked her wand over the opposite side of the room, casting a swift silencing spell. She ran into her kitchen to get her cats their breakfast. Opening their little corridor, they came tumbling out, mewing with hunger and happiness to see her. Tonks laid down their bowls, distracted, and on second thought cast a further spell around Remus's side of the room, one of the most useful spells in her arsenal, and one of the only really obscure household-y spells she knew. 'Felinus nihilus!' Litter, scratches, screeches, flying fur, and all other kinds of cat catastrophe big and small would now not affect the other half of the room. The last thing she needed in her life was a cat on werewolf fight. Especially since the fight would in no way be fair. Her cats would definitely win.

She cleaned up after her cats, taking out their litter the Muggle way (believe it or not it was more efficient and precise, since wand magic couldn't separate the dirty from the clean litter with any reasonable degree of accuracy…well, Molly Weasley surely would be able to accomplish the task, but, alas, there were few witches more opposite to Tonks in terms of their housewifely orientation and pizazz than Molly Weasley…Merlin, she hadn't thought of Molly in a long while. Another reason Remus was not welcome here, she half-thought as she popped into the shower). By the time she was finished with her cats and they were purring contentedly, grooming one another and lying lazily on the floor; by the time she was finished in the shower (no time at all); by the time she threw on her clothes from the previous day (negative time wasted on that); she took a moment to marvel at the fact that her hair and eyes were taking longer than usual to settle for the day — eyes switching from green to purple, hair from fire engine red to cornflower yellow.

Whatever. She had to get going. Tonks glanced over at Remus, as indifferently as she possibly could. Still asleep. Better for him. And for her.

Still, Tonks froze. Should she wake him? Should she send Moody a patronus, and tell him the circumstances? He'd understand if for that reason she needed to break her appointment. He'd be anxious, as was she, somewhere deep inside, to know the circumstances of Remus's injuries from the previous night. Also, Tonks was loathe to admit it, but she felt a strong inclination to make Remus breakfast. She used to love fussing over him at Grimmauld Place…In fact, her overdeveloped concern for his comfort leading up to and after the full moon (now one more night to go), and for his nutritional needs during all other of the moon's phases, clued in some of the more observant Order members to Tonks's unspoken feelings for the understated werewolf. She remembered one time when she nearly exploded the entire stove when…

No. Now was not time for a trip down memory lane. Remus was an adult. He could fend for himself. Tonks needed to focus on what she needed to do for the day. It was only half her fault that she and Remus never kept in touch after the war. When she needed him most…

No. He could sleep then do however he chose. His injuries were no longer threatening. Besides, she'd be back that evening. Remus could wait, if he wanted, until then. Tonks didn't want to think about it any longer. So she bid her cats farewell and exited the apartment into the crisp December air.

Arriving at the diner 10 minutes later following a brisk walk, she saw Moody already there, huddled with Mark Lee at the counter. From the looks of the way he was stabbing his pancakes, Moody was not a happy camper.

Not that she'd ever describe him as a 'happy camper.' A vigilant one, perhaps. But never quite happy. One of the terrible, some might say downright mean, traditions she and Moody had: once every month or so, they'd order some takeout and sit down at his place to watch television reruns recorded by Moody. They were videos that he'd show his trainees on the 'lighter' days of teaching, during the unit on Muggle navigation and rescue. They'd laugh so hard, tears would roll down their cheeks — er, Tonks's cheeks…the tears were more metaphorical in Moody's case — watching the Muggles — the 'happy campers' — in the videos set out snapping selfies of themselves at hiking landmarks, in national parks, without any knowledge besides what they'd seen on an online instructional video; without any provisions of which to speak; these were mostly men who were trying to impress their girlfriends…extra laughter was granted the narratives that ended with bear attacks and alligator snappings. Some might say that Moody and Tonks had twisted senses of humor. Sure, the real point of the videos for the trainees was to watch the American Wizarding Rangers, a branch of the United States Auror Service, skillfully extricate Muggles from these situations, without revealing anything of the Magical world. Still, it was really hard to watch the videos with a straight face. And Moody always took special interest in the trainees who had the sense to find the videos funny, despite the fact that he himself scowled throughout their training. He swore to Tonks that the rare ones who laughed, despite the intimidating Auror atmosphere, who laughed at these presentations always made the best, most intelligent, creative Aurors. It was important to Moody, and to Tonks, that you can't help but find people's unfounded bravado and their subsequent embarrassment oh so satisfying. It kept you…skeptical, on guard. Not taken in by authority and by respect for the emotions you were 'supposed' to exhibit. It showed you didn't give a damn about what other people wanted you to be, just for the sake of keeping order.

'Tonks,' Moody growled, 'you're two minutes late.' 'Sorry, Mad-Eye, I was banking on you getting that extra hour of beauty rest. I thought you yourself would be the late one.' 'Alright, lassie, it's too early for your attitude. And you can't afford it anyway, not after you deferred our conversation from last night to this morning. We have a lot to cover.' 'And, you know, you can hardly afford missing that beauty rest. Hi, Mark,' Tonks nodded to Mark Lee as she hung up her coat on the coat hanger next to the bar, and sat down at the stool. 'Good morning, Miss Tonks. My, you look nice this morning.' 'What, I —' Tonks stopped mid-sentence and, stunned and disturbed, confronted her reflection in the wall-sized mirror behind the counter. Her hair was a soft auburn, her eyes were a light green. 'What the…' she muttered. Moody gave her a sideways glance, magical eye whirling, but all he said was, 'Back to business, team.'

'Tonks,' Mr. Lee began. 'Tonks. We have some…disturbing information about…about the origins of Angela's…her drawing.' 'Oh?' Tonks looked from Moody to Mr. Lee and back again. 'Is it…?' 'It's exactly what we were expecting, except worse.' Moody gestured to the tray Mr. Lee was setting out in front of her. 'First. You're going to need some coffee for this. Or something.'


	7. Part I: Labyrinths: Chapter 2

Tonks looked from Mr. Lee to Mad-Eye and back again, leaning in, in anticipation of what she thought she already knew, what they all already knew: it was Umbridge — all that was needed was to fill in the blanks (Umbridge in the [fill in the blank room] with the [fill in the blank weapon]…). As an Auror, Tonks was always eager for information she could store then synthesize, and all the more so when her initial convictions happened to be validated by the information coming in. She enjoyed meticulously and impartially gathering investigative materials, then putting the pieces of the puzzle together. She further enjoyed what came afterward — action on the basis of the best possible intelligence, and hopefully the sabotage of what, even in her hardened state of mind she still referred to, rather melodramatically, as 'evil doers.' Dolores Umbridge being the evil-doer incarnate.

She and Moody had already spent countless hours discussing the seemingly innocent presence of Tonks's nemesis in pink, in Wizarding New York, speculating why and how she came to be there. Umbridge had emerged from the war, somehow, as a hero — as a restorer of order. No one seemed to remember her tyrannical stint at Hogwarts, or else her authoritarianism at the school was written off as a necessary 'lesser of evils' response in a far from perfect world. At worst, it was said, Umbridge was overzealous, but she had meant well. She had never openly or, to anyone's knowledge, covertly worked in allegiance with Voldemort. Nor was it ever proven that she had sympathy for the Death Eater cadre.

In any case, after Hogwarts, Umbridge was savvy to have vanished for a while from the scene. People forgot her at her worst. They remembered her only in comparison with the horrors that ensued; horrors that were, admittedly, enough to dwarf anything Umbridge had ever (publicly) done.

So when Umbridge re-emerged just in time to help reconstitute a demoralized Ministry after the war, with her call to calm, discipline, and order; when she furthermore delivered all three along with daily supplies, to every Ministry department and public hearing, of tea and crumpets arranged with the delicacy of a zen garden, on top of a doily-adorned fuschia roller cart, pushed by none other than the toady lady herself; then Umbridge was hailed on all sides as a moderate peacemaker and a style icon, the best person there was to lead Magical Britain to reconciliation and healing with aplomb, cleverness, and grace.

Umbridge began to appear in all the highest women's fashion magazines, donning her signature pink skirt as well as custom-made silk cerulean and baby pink cardigans and even hot pink thigh-high boots. Those boots would have driven the formerly fashion-crazed Tonks mad with jealousy and boot-lust.

However. Sometimes the magazines captured Umbridge in rather racy, highly stylized scenes that the public, now inexplicably to Tonks's mind, lapped up. In one shot, Umbridge was shown spanking chained Death Eaters. In a second she had her head thrown back in seemingly orgasmic ecstasy as a cloaked figure resembling Lucius Malfoy unleashed the Cruciatus curse on her; in another she was fixing her lipstick in a high fashion compact, the brand label embossed on the retro cover, just before kissing a dementor in the driver's seat next to her, all in a Barbie-pink convertible that was otherwise shrouded in romantic yet sinister darkness.

Tonks almost vomited when she first saw the photos, which Moody had slapped on the counter of the diner one day, an unappetizing part of their daily briefing at breakfast ('I don't remember ordering your pancakes with a side of puke, Mad Eye.'). Tonks didn't hate them because she was prudish or because she had any inherent antipathy to fashion. She loathed how the worst in marketing and politics colluded, in the name of the art of haute couture; themes of torture, symbols of hatred, and things of deep significance for justice and grassroots rallying had been trivialized into a tame, neutral commodity.

Perhaps even worse, since it further involved the public at large, after Umbridge's fashion forays, department stores sold out of imitations of her pillbox pink hat within hours, while every girl or woman aged 15 to 85 clamored for the scarce, flirty tubes of candy colored lipsticks she released under her makeup line 'The Umbridge Collection: Yum-Um Pink!' At times like these especially, Tonks yearned for her morphing abilities: someone — someone low and mean — was painting in the poorest shades the best color on heaven and earth — pink.

Umbridge was popular. Social media, in your face, on morning talk shows, Oprah interview, hashtag everything trending, instagram and beyond- level popular. She had effectively mobilized the public's desire for consumer comforts and frivolity in the wake of the war and in the midst of mourning, distracting them from all substantive issues. Umbridge's astronomical popularity was one reason everyone was shocked when a relative unknown named Adam Woods was launched almost overnight to the Minister of Magic post. The public was puzzled at that. They were even more angered and disappointed than they were shocked. Umbridge was the face of post-war Britain, and her adoring fans, young and old, did not want to let her get away with anything short of serving them in the highest possible position.

Still, Umbridge had gained their trust, and she assured everyone they were in good hands with the newcomer, Woods. This endeared her to everyone further, for her perfect manners and modesty led her to give every confidence and well wish to Britain and to Woods's command of the governing wizarding body there. There was nothing much to do, then, but to accept the unexpected turn of events. Nothing to do except to continue to await Umbridge's every interview and makeup debut, waiting in line and on their phones in 'I Heart Pink' pillbox hats. While this thrilling craze for all things Umbridge continued, the magical communities in Britain were, with little dissent and even smaller amounts of interest, willing to hand over to Woods whatever role he might claim at the ministry. Woods was boring and no one paid him much heed. His background was fuzzy except for a once well-publicized but now largely forgotten turn as the director of some Muggle university in Tennessee, of all places. Compared to the many splendored outfits and products that was the one woman crowd pleaser, Dolores Umbridge, Adam Woods was a nobody who, though he was the Minister of Magic in name, might just as well have been another faceless bureaucrat for whom the public paid no mind.

In any case, soon after Woods's appointment, and soon after Tonks herself arrived back home, utterly depleted and miserable after the war, Umbridge followed, gaining more modest but nonetheless renowned employment at the NYC Wizarding Academy. And even though in cynical seen-it-all New York, Umbridge never quite made the splash she did overseas, seeming to elect to fly under the radar, the makeup stores' best-seller in New York City was, like in London, the Umbridge Yum-Um line. Color #308 was especially popular: Torture-Me-Pink.

Neither Moody nor Tonks trusted Umbridge for a moment, and they had long been in the business of gathering intelligence on her and on the mysterious Adam Woods, about whom they discovered next to nothing. And especially when Umbridge began showing a special interest in the children orphaned during the war, taking it upon herself to grant special 'scholarships' and foster transitions between Wizarding Prep and the Wizarding Academy, for children who otherwise might be disadvantaged, due to deep seated prejudice, in gaining entry into the institution, Tonks and Moody redoubled their investigative efforts. And now came this most recent occasion for acute investigation: Angela's disturbing drawing.

Angela was, of course, already a prime candidate for the receipt of an Umbridge-Initiative Scholarship for Lycanthropy Victims, as they were called (funded, apparently, by donors privately sourced by Umbridge — Tonks and Moody were still working to figure out exactly who was donating, and how). But moreover Angela was, Tonks suspected, a veritable genius, especially in the arts, and Mark wanted nothing but the absolute best for his daughter. He was therefore less inclined to be suspicious of Umbridge than were Tonks and Moody. Mark Lee was skeptical, but also wanted to be able to put trust in the bit— er, witch, who made impassioned public speeches in support of werewolf rights and educational advancement on the basis of talent, rather than on 'creaturely status.' The normally cynical Mark was all the more inclined to give his approval to Umbridge, since he did not suffer the same affliction as his daughter, and for that suffered a worse fate — guilt.

'Tonks! Lass! Pay attention,' Moody barked, bringing Tonks out of her 'out with Umbridge' reveries. 'Right. Well. Out with her, er, it, you two.' Mark cleared his throat. 'Tonks…I addressed my concerns to Angela's teacher, a Mrs. Melinda Lewis, and she expressed — unconvincingly to my mind — shock and dismay at the content of the drawing. She told me that the school would never support such subject matter or ideology, and that Angela must have been imitating something she'd seen on television or online. She further insinuated that my wife and I might ourselves be spouting bigoted hatred at home. She said she could not think of another source for Angela's ideas because nothing of the sort was espoused at the school…Of course this isn't true.' 'It almost gives ya the feeling,' Moody interjected, stabbing at a particularly hapless looking pancake, 'that she wants ya to protest. Say 'oh no Mrs. Melinda, oh no. We're ourselves dark creatures and we'd never betray our kind.'

Tonks grew pale. She knew intimately from working with her children at the Center that most parents hid their children's status completely. While NYC Wizarding society was more progressive, there were pockets of pureblood activism and violence, most of it underground, but sometimes barely beneath the surface. They were desperate for their children's life chances to be as good as anyone's; for that they hoped that their children would apply and receive the special scholarships Umbridge was advertising. But to do that they needed to fully register their children, revealing their 'creaturely status' incontrovertibly to public record. Once that happened there was no going back. Any subsequent political takeover by a regressive party or other power would endanger their children and themselves. The risks were high on either side — you don't register, you don't apply, your children might never lead a normal let alone a flourishing successful life; you do register, your children and you might be rounded up for arrest, deportation, or…worse…should the wrong people come to power. After the Wizarding War in Britain, people in Wizarding NYC were very cautious. More cautious in London that things might not be over, that it wasn't quite yet the 'right time' to be anything but a pureblood…it was still very dangerous and there weren't anywhere near enough legal protections. Moody was right. Melinda might very well be pressuring Mark to reveal his and his daughter's status.

'I know. I know,' Mark was saying. 'That's not all, though, Tonks.' 'Oh?' 'No. When I pointed out to Melinda that the drawing was graded already so she must have seen it — and approved — she almost tripped herself up, but then said it must have been the art teacher who gave the grade without examining the contents more carefully. When I went to talk to the art teacher, Andrew Hall, he was vague and said the same things as Melinda. Except he told me she must have graded it carelessly and that I should go talk to her first.'

'In short, lassie, the runaround,' Moody growled, taking an emphatic swig from his flask. 'Yeah. Of course…But…you said it's even worse than we'd expect. What's the worse part? That they seem to be pressuring and threatening the Lees? That we don't have proof it's Umbridge's machinations behind it?' 'Well, strictly speaking, Tonks, we do not know at all that it's Umbridge,' Mark said quietly. 'But it has to be, Mark, it's got to be.' 'Now hold up lassie. There's no logic in 'it has to be.' You know better than that.' 'Yeah. Of course. I know that.' Tonks paused. 'But, come on!' 'No, girl. NO. No come on. We can't rule things out. We can't rule out that it's someone's self-hating relatives repeating stuff to their kids and the kids getting it into Angela's head. Unlikely, to be sure. Highly unlikely,' he nodded shortly to Mark. 'But we cannot act on feeling or gut alone. We only know what we know for now, and we need to keep ourselves on guard!' Moody banged the bar for emphasis, drawing the curious and somewhat hostile attention of the diner's mostly elderly morning crowd. Moody lowered his voice again, continuing in a harsh whisper and a far-off glare, 'And in the meanwhile. We gather more information. We don't stop. Tonks and I will go through the background we've gathered on Umbridge and her ilk, especially her connections to the school. It's quite a file we've been working on since we moved here. See if there's anything that suggests a pattern of strategic intervention in the curriculum of the school. That'd be new, but maybe there's some kind of precedent for it we're not seeing as such yet. I don't know. I'll work my connections at the Underground too, see if there's anything anyone else has tapped into that could be of use…'

Uncharacteristically, Moody trailed off, his magical eye having rolled back in its socket towards the door which, Tonks felt by the burst of icy air, had just been pushed open. Without turning around, with both his eyes fixed on Tonks, Moody lifted his flask again to his lips. 'It's about time, Lupin,' Moody called out. 'Stop blushing like a schoolgirl, for Merlin's sake. Come in and sit down.' He tilted his head back and drank to the dregs the last of his mysterious drink.


End file.
